


Erosion

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He played the game because it was necessary, but he lacked the heart and soul of the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erosion

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - There is major depression and suicide in this fic. Please don't read if this bothers you. I like you, and I want you to be okay.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

Mycroft bought a dozen of his preferred pens the day John Watson shot Jefferson Hope.

That was the day he began to write.

-o-

He bought a fireproof safe with three massive solid steel locking bolts. The steel door was more than three inches thick and had a bio-metric digital lock. It had a gorgeous cherry wood interior that matched the décor of his library; though fairly unnecessary given that it was hidden behind a false wall.

He programmed the lock with Sherlock’s fingerprint; using an old spy technique to keep his brother’s fingerprint handy. If anyone came after him, they’d be disappointed to find his own long fingers didn’t open the safe. If they found the safe at all.

No, this was entirely for Sherlock’s protection.

-o-

The days wore heavily on Mycroft. Years controlling the political directions and safety of all of England weathered him the way waves crash upon the rocks, dulling the jagged edges of their personality, leaving them washed out, weary, and simply tired.

He was exhausted.

Years of forgoing personal entanglements aside from the constant aching concern for his brother. He felt empty. Hollow. The challenges that once engaged him; kept him energetic, motivated, challenged, had been battered away.

He kept writing; keeping himself deliberately vague. He wore out his fourth pen the day the flat across the street from 221B exploded.

-o-

When Ms. Adler came on the scene, he spent through two pens in a month, staying up late into the night, writing pages and pages of equations, of graphs, of relationships and political theorems. Sherlock might find them boring, but that was neither here nor there.

DI Lestrade showed his loyalty at Bakersfield, but Sherlock showed his need for Mycroft’s ministrations even further. The safe was filled with over a ream of handwritten documents, tabbed, highlighted and organized with a cross-referenced index that only Sherlock had any hope of navigating.

His writing took pause as he danced with devil, stringing him out, weaving a complex tapestry of half-truths and missteps designed to delicately hang Moriarty in a knot of his own making. Years ago, this art of war between two masterminds would have delighted him, but it just smoothed out the ripples of enjoyment, leaving him void of character, of passion, of interest. He played the game because it was necessary, but he lacked the heart and soul of the matter.

The heart and soul which led to Sherlock’s fake suicide.

-o-

He only had one pen left by the time he left to fetch Sherlock from the brutal hands of the Serbians. He’d waited, timing his writing deliberately, just in case he might be needed. All the writing in the world would mean nothing if Sherlock were not healthy, whole and alive to use it.

The last pen took him months to use; he was sparing, waiting for the Morstan debacle to resolve. The last true threat he could eliminate for the sake of his brother. He was so tired now, and so empty. His physician had been recommending anti-depressants for years, but Mycroft knew his brain couldn’t be altered to function like the machine that it is. He’d been nothing more than a meat suit housing the most brilliant processor known to man in this age, and the flesh was fatigued, bruised, and he was certain it will melt off his bones any day now.

As Sherlock’s plane returned to the tarmac, Mycroft knew it was time. Time to let the last of the ink drain from its pen, before the last of his blood drained from his body. He was grateful, sometimes, that he was the clever one; Sherlock would have certainly tried to stop him, if he had only seen it coming.

-o-

The pen breathed its last as Mycroft finished the final words.

_For the care and protection of W. Sherlock S. Holmes,_

_with everlasting love,_

_T. Mycroft S. Holmes._

He headed to the kitchen, where Mrs. Herrington has made, upon request, the most delectable cake he’d ever eaten. He pulled a plate from the cupboard and a fork from the drawer. He selected a knife from the block, and spent a quiet five minutes sharpening the blade against a stone, the echoing noise near deafening in the silence of his home. He’d sent his entire staff home for the evening; he was fittingly alone for this, his final actions.

When the blade was suitably sharp, slicing into the soft flesh of his pinky as he tested it out, he set it down on the edge of the plate. He fetched champagne from the wine cellar, a vintage he’d been saving for this occasion, having bought it four years prior. He filled a flute, and put the rest of the bottle into a bucket of ice. He sliced himself a hearty piece of cake; his diet was pointless now; and placed the cake, the fork, the cleaned knife, the champagne and the flute onto a serving tray and slowly walked up the stairs to his en suite.

The oversized claw footed bath took time to fill, and Mycroft slowly undressed, leaving each item on a hanger, for when Ms. Scholski came to tidy. No use in being any sort of extra burden; his body will be enough. Mycroft stared at himself in the mirror, running his hands over the soft hairs on his chest, down the pouch of tummy he never could rid of. He looked at the deep set black bags under his eyes, and the thinning of his hair; the nose he never liked. His gaze dropped down to his pelvis, his penis, and he regretted the pride that refused to pay for affection. He hadn’t been touched by another since uni, it was too dangerous in his line of work to form attachments. He glared at his soft penis, slumped in defeat, and wondered how much of a disservice he had done himself. Would succumbing to the wants of the flesh have saved him? Would he have been happier? The goldfish of the world certainly thought so, but how was he to compare himself to them? It was too late for speculation now.

The water threatened to overrun the bathtub, and Mycroft turned off the taps. He set his tray on the table nearby and slowly settled himself into the warmth. A few splashes of water ran over and onto the floor, and ignoring that, Mycroft gracefully procured his cake. He took a few bites, rolling his tongue to savor each layer of cake, cream, and fruit, then reached out for his champagne.

As he expected, the two flavors danced in tandem, exploding pleasure on his taste buds. He smiled, albeit sadly; a last meal was always bittersweet, despite its flavors. Perhaps yet another indulgence he should have partaken more often.

How could one so brilliant be riddled with such regrets? He chastised himself, then recognized the futility of such an action, and simply allowed himself the sensory pleasure of the moist cake, the bubbles dancing down his throat, and the warm water encasing his body.

He poured himself another glass of champagne, and this time, propriety be damned, drank the glass in one go, feeling the alcohol begin to seep into his system. He poured a third glass, the bottle near empty, and slowly finished off his cake.

He set the plate aside, and sipped the champagne, until it too, was empty. When he poured the last of the bottle into the glass, his long fingers ran down the edge of the knife, before he picked it up. He gazed at his distorted reflection and mentally reviewed his checklist.

He’d written over a thousand pages on every single item pertaining to his career he could consider; the relationships between countries, between politicians, between figures of non-political importance. How the trade relationships boiled down to a series of complex equations, but simple for a man like his brother to decipher. The safe was only be to opened with Sherlock’s fingerprint and, what he hoped would either amuse or annoy his younger brother, the man’s measurements; long since memorized after years of providing the detective his suits.

Only Sherlock could decipher and explain the documents; and much like he’d used Mycroft as a tool in his work, holding said documents ransom would allow him to continue to avoid difficulties. It was the best way to protect Sherlock long after his death from the whims of the law. He expected John Watson would protect him from the criminal underclass; and thus, his only real purpose could continue after death.

He’d scheduled a text to go to DI Lestrade in a few hours; he trusted the man because Sherlock trusted the man, and hoped the good DI could dispose of his body before his staff discovered the scene.

He was ready.

He took the sharpened knife, and sliced a deep vertical stripe into his femoral artery, on both sides. It burned, seared, more than he had expected; he hoped the alcohol would dampen the nerves, but he carried on. He held the champagne to his lips, enjoying the last of life tickling down his throat.

The water turned a deep red, and he felt tired, weak, and the his last conscious moment was hearing the champagne flute slip from his fingers and shatter onto the tile floor below.


End file.
